


every drop of rain singing

by kanicro



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Autistic Jonathan Sims, Canon-Typical Stuttering, Jonathan Sims Pining for His Own Boyfriend, M/M, Pining, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, also. i sprinkle in a little, compulsory safehouse fic, in which martin actually talks about his feelings, jonathan sims being helplessly in love, post-159, pre-160
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:13:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23765941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanicro/pseuds/kanicro
Summary: "Don't lie to me, Martin,” Jon says, something desperate and impatient starting to curl in his stomach. “Why is it so difficult to tell me how you feel?"“Because I’m afraid you’ll hate me if I talk about it,” Martin says. His posture closes in on itself and he looks down, his face suddenly becoming very blank.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 37
Kudos: 409





	every drop of rain singing

**Author's Note:**

> Listening to new episodes like [Simpson's voice] Stop, stop! I'm already soft!
> 
> Anyway here's my compulsory safehouse fic

There’s something unmistakably pleasant about putting things in their place. About knowing where things are and how to find them. It was an impossible task in the Archives, but here, every sheet of paper is equally mundane and unimportant. So Jon has taken over the small coffee table and covered it with the small pile of receipts that have accumulated in the past week.

He labels and dates them, cataloguing fruits and onions from the stand on the side of the road, pasta and rice and tinned beans from the small grocery store, the box of tea Martin had bought from a small shop beside the second-hand bookstore. The rain moves in rivlets down the windows, the scent of something fresh and alive coming in from the gap under the door, and Martin is humming softly in the kitchen as he monitors the state of the pasta. It’s almost finished.

There’s nowhere else Jon would rather be, nothing else he’d rather be doing, no one else he would rather be with. He feels himself smile as he reaches for-

There’s something already written on the receipt. Of course there is, it’s a receipt, but something else aside from the _Pineapple, £2_ handwritten in blue ink in the centre. It’s cramped and messy, a few lines scrawled in a corner, and Jon squints to read it.

It’s a poem. Or part of one, at least. 

_and even as I dragged myself, empty_

_from the clutches of its unyielding finity,_

_I wonder if it clung to me as this,_

_dispassionate heap of cloying devouring_

_unmoving creation for nobody_

It ends there, as though Martin had gotten that far and then lost whatever had struck him in the first place. Because it can only be Martin who wrote it, even if his handwriting isn’t usually so messy. Jon remembers buying the pineapple, surprised to see them in a place he didn’t particularly associate with pineapples, though he now Knows that pineapples were first grown in Scotland in 1731 and that there is a building in the shape of one in Stirlingshire. He remembers that Martin had grown distant in the afternoon, pleading tiredness and nothing else.

Jon startles when Martin leans on him, resting his chin on his head. His arms wrap around his shoulders to link hands in front of Jon's sternum, and Jon hastens to fold the receipt in half and write the date on it. He puts it on the pile of food purchases. 

“Get distracted, did we?” Martin comments, amused, and Jon lifts his now-free hands to warm them on Martin’s.

“Just a bit. Did you know that there’s a summerhouse in the shape of a pineapple near Airth in Stirlingshire?” Jon says as Martin traps his hands under his own, rubbing circles over the edges of his scars.

“No, but something tells me that, a few minutes ago, you didn’t either,” Martin says, and Jon can tell he’s teasing, has learnt to pick up the delighted undercurrent in his voice. He rolls his eyes, not that Martin can see, and tugs his hands free to wriggle out of Martin’s grasp and stand up. When he does, he offers Martin his hand again.

Pasta isn’t the easiest thing to eat one-handed, so instead they twine their ankles together under the table, and Jon feels something euphoric in his chest as he cheekily taps his foot against Martin’s until, with a long-suffering sigh, Martin presses his feet against the floor and keeps them there.

The poem doesn’t leave his mind. It rings through his head as they have dinner, as he washes the dishes, as he goes to sit beside Martin on the couch, book in hand. Jon has asked after Martin’s poetry before, while they’ve been in the safehouse, and Martin had told him that he hadn’t been writing since- well. It’s difficult to write about how you feel when you’re actively trying to avoid feeling anything at all. A part of Jon is pleased, hopes that this is a sign that Martin has recovered, but.

But Martin is quiet, now, his hand limp in Jon’s, and Jon presses a receipt between the pages of the book and sets it down on the table. He watches Martin look out the window, the rain having abandoned them for a short while, and when Martin realises that Jon is looking at him he looks back.

“Is there something on my face?” he asks, and Jon pulls a face and shakes his head.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to- no, you’re fine.” Except he isn’t, and Jon can’t bear not knowing, and he can’t help but ask, "How are you, Martin?"

"I'm... good?" Martin answers, seeming confused. He smiles at Jon, but it fades quickly, not enough substance behind it to sustain it. "You've been with me the whole day, Jon, you would have noticed if I were upset."

Jon is nothing if not persistent. "I don't mean- I mean, how do you feel? Not just today, but… in general," he finishes lamely, and Martin seems to withdraw slightly.

"I feel alright, you know? I mean, things are a bit weird, but I'm fine. No problems on my end," Martin says, and Jon knows he's lying. He Knows he's lying.

And he has evidence, even. "I- uh," and he now wonders if it's an invasion of privacy to read a scrap piece of paper, "I found a poem. That you wrote. And it just seemed sort of- it didn't seem very happy."

"You found-?” He glances at the receipts in realisation and sighs. “You- you don’t need to worry about that, Jon.”

Except Jon is worried. Even more so now that Martin is avoiding it, despite it just being them. Despite it just being Jon, and nobody and nothing else.

"Don't lie to me, Martin,” Jon says, something desperate and impatient starting to curl in his stomach. “ _Why is it so difficult to tell me how you feel?_ "

He feels a cold hand grip his heart when static accompanies the question, but the compulsion doesn’t taste like regret, or betrayal, or like rotting books decomposing in his stomach. And Jon Knows Martin’s trying to hold back but the room suddenly feels too loud and too close and too Much and it-

“Because I’m afraid you’ll hate me if I talk about it,” Martin says. 

The knowledge settles on his tongue like honey. No, it does not taste like something festered within, but Jon wants to hate it all the same.

Martin’s posture closes in on itself and he looks down, his face suddenly becoming very blank. Jon’s stomach opens up into a pit in his abdomen and he swallows into an aching void as he presses closer to Martin on the couch, moving his other hand to hold Martin’s between his own.

“Martin, I, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to- to,” he stutters, “I didn’t mean to do that.”

Martin squeezes his hand slightly and takes a steadying breath. “No, I know you didn’t mean to. I forgive you.”

It’s not enough to ease whatever has replaced Jon’s stomach, but he sits quietly with it and lets Martin think. When he feels brave enough, he looks up at Martin’s face, but he would sooner succeed at figuring out time travel than understanding the expression there. Instead, he catalogues the constellation of freckles on Martin’s cheeks, traces the curve of his ear, ponders the space between his eyebrows. A few centimetres behind the bridge of Martin’s nose is a gland the size of a pea and Martin’s is functioning just fine. Another breath, and he looks at the pale wisps of hair on Martin’s hairline, new and delicate. His gaze travels down to Martin’s lips, just for a moment, and then back up to his eyes. Jon wonders whether Martin has ever looked at him like this. Just for the sake of looking. 

After what feels like forever (6 minutes, 37 seconds), Martin sighs, but it’s the brisk sigh of someone who is frustrated, or, or angry, and Jon feels his heart flutter against his ribcage with panic. Martin looks away from where their hands are entwined between them and turns his gaze to the window again, his eyes travelling over nothing. He tugs his hand out of Jon’s to twist it around the fingers of his other hand and Jon leaves his there, the skin cold where the air touches. He looks down at it, quietly focused on what Martin has to say.

“Do you actually want to know how I feel?” Martin’s voice is tinny, either from nerves or anger, and just this side of loud, the volume one needs to overcome the tightness in the back of their throat when they’re upset.

Jon aches. “Of course I do.”

“Okay,” Martin says, and Jon can hear something frantic in it. Nerves, then. Martin takes a deep breath. “Okay. Here's how I feel. I feel- I feel fine. I feel great. I feel wonderful, really, so much of the time, and it’s-” Martin laughs, just slightly, “It’s amazing, you know, how loving someone can fill you until even everything insignificant seems impossibly beautiful. And every moment is just so _good_ because you never thought you’d even have them.

“And then, it’s like- like someone’s blown out a candle, and all that turns into smoke. And I feel like nothing. I feel like someone's taken the parts of a person that should be left behind and made me out of them. I feel like I’m losing days, like I’m stuck in a Sunday afternoon that lasts a week. I feel- I feel empty, and hollow, and I’m trying to find something to fill it but there’s just- nothing. And I, I, I feel so _stupid_ for telling you any of this, because things are supposed to be okay!” A hiccuping breath. “I'm supposed to be okay. This- I just want to be _happy_." 

Martin's inhale is more of a gasp, heaving and desperate, and Jon looks up to watch him brush away tears to no avail. He lifts a hand to Martin’s cheek, pressing it against the line of his face and smearing his thumb over the wet skin. Jon knows his hand is cold, can feel Martin’s warmth burning against it. But Martin tilts his head into Jon’s hand. His eyes flutter closed and he takes a moment to breathe. His skin is reddened and blotchy, his eyelashes clumped with tears. The ache grows, something unbearable forming in his chest. He does his best to ignore it and just watches. 

After a moment of stillness, Martin’s eyes drift open and lock onto where Jon’s other hand still rests on the couch. He covers it with his own and Jon threads their fingers together. He admires the way they look together before looking back up at Martin’s face.

Martin sniffs wetly and swallows. "I- I want to be happy, here, with you, Jon. It feels like that's all I've ever wanted."

And Jon is helpless to say anything in response except, “I love you.” 

As if that can begin to encompass this terrific thing living in his body, settling in his skin, every breath and every heartbeat and every space in his head containing nothing but Martin’s name. It sounds the same as one would say _love_. Because he loves Martin in this moment, in every moment, sleepy confusion in the early morning and delighted smiles in the daytime and now, face streaked with tears, brave and open because Jon has asked and for no other reason.

He is also helpless against the warmth that rises in his cheeks and burns his ears immediately after saying it, the stammering sentence that follows, “Sorry- I, I, I know that’s- that’s not really, uh, it’s-” 

Stupid, to blurt out the only thing ringing through his head instead of taking the time to form something useful. He doesn’t want to know what sort of face he’s making at the moment. And his hand is still on Martin’s face, and he feels like he should feel awkward about it, but he’s not going to move it now.

Martin smiles, the corners of his mouth turning upwards even as his lips purse slightly in what Jon recognises as a poor attempt at suppressing it. He exhales through his nose, and it’s not a laugh but Jon will take it, he’ll take anything Martin has to offer, he’ll take all of it.

“Let me try again?” Jon offers, and he’s suddenly too aware of how soft and plaintive his voice sounds.

“Sure,” Martin says, and he sniffs again, “Sure, I’m- I mean, go ahead. This is- this is already way further than I planned out in my head, so.”

“So,” Jon copies, and he smooths his thumb over Martin’s cheek again before he puts his hand back over Martin’s. He tries to think of how to put his thoughts to words, watching as Martin’s eyes dart between his. “Well, I obviously don’t hate you. Quite the opposite, really.” He quirks the corner of his mouth up in a half-smile, deliberate, before letting it fall. “And- and obviously this isn’t the sort of thing that can be fixed in a few sentences, but I- I need you to know that I’m here for you.” Suddenly, looking at Martin’s face, eyes wide as he looks back, is too much and he glances down. “Not just when things are easy. I’ll love you even if you’re stuck in a Sunday afternoon every day for the rest of your life. You don’t need to worry about that.”

He sees, with some alarm, new tears falling onto the couch in front of Martin and looks up to see that Martin has placed his other hand over his mouth. His eyes are even wetter than before.

“I mean,” Jon hastens to clarify, “Obviously I don’t want you to- to feel like that all the time, I just- I’ll love you even if you do.”

Martin shakes his head, making a small hiccoughing sound as he breathes in. “It’s not- it’s not that. I just- I love you, too. I love you, Jon.”

"Oh," Jon says, soft. "Alright then."

Martin's breathing is shaky for a few moments more, then he takes a deep breath, resolute, and it steadies. He wipes his nose on his hand and then wrinkles it in distaste, and Jon's heart beats _love_ through his body, inane and unnecessary and ever-present. Martin looks at him, his forehead free of its worried furrow and his lips curling into a smile. His face is still red, his lips vibrant from the blood that has rushed to the surface to fill them, and Jon realises that he has never actually met anyone who retains any semblance of beauty when they cry. That isn’t stopping the overwhelming adoration in his chest.

"Thank you. That's- that's exactly what I needed to hear," Martin confesses, and Jon feels a rush of relief. He presses Martin’s hand between his own and Martin squeezes back, sighs, and continues, "I'm the one who got myself into this mess, and I'll be the one to get myself out of it. But," and he pulls Jon’s hand up to his mouth, kissing the back of it, "But. Even with all that, I- You make me glad I exist."

Jon doesn't so much hug Martin after that as he does fall into him, but Martin returns it with a desperation that seems to mimic his own. He moves closer toward him on the couch to tuck his head into the gap between Martin's neck and shoulder, and the press of his body against him is warm and soft and precious. All he can see from here is the curve of Martin’s back, the hair that creeps down his neck. _Even everything insignificant_ , Martin had said, and it keeps ringing through Jon’s head on loop, but this is the most important thing Jon has ever known. His lips press against Martin's skin.

And then he draws back slightly to say, voice quiet, “I know it’s not exactly the same, but I know what it’s like to- to want to be happy and not always feel like that’s within reach. You know I’m not one for optimism, but I like to think that one day we’ll forget what that feels like.”

Jon feels Martin press himself closer. He tucks his head back in and closes his eyes. He can hear the rain under the soft sounds of Martin breathing.

"I think we will."

**Author's Note:**

> my hot tip for the day is: have a doc called shrapnel and every time you think of a new idea for a fic, just put it in there. sentences, phrases, a short poem, whatever worm sets up shop in your head. in fits and bursts you may one day have a fic made out of yearning.
> 
> Also, I didn’t find out how much pineapples cost but I did discover that there is a pineapple house in Scotland. Thanks google.
> 
> Title from Pink In The Night by Mitski because I just [clenches fist] am full of longing.


End file.
